


Restless

by littlesailboat



Category: The Society (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, F/M, because we know harry is in love, but he's just in denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-19 17:06:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18974452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesailboat/pseuds/littlesailboat
Summary: That should have been the end of it—just another round lost and tallied in the scoreboard against Cassandra—but now, as he wills himself to sleep, all Harry can see when he closes his eyes is her face, mocking him."If I didn’t know any better, I would think you’d miss me when I’m gone."[Pre-canon Harry's late night thoughts on a certain blue-eyed rival]





	Restless

**Author's Note:**

> Hassandra had such a complex relationship before everything went down and the show should have explored that more. That's that on that.

_If I didn’t know any better, I would think you’d miss me when I’m gone._

It was a stupid joke, what Cassandra had said to him. There was no meaning behind it, no other intention but to get back at him. For her, it was just another witty remark thrown into their usual repartee.

But here he is now, awake in bed at some ungodly hour, with her words ringing in his head like a goddamn curse.

He had started it; Harry always did. He didn’t intend to that morning, not with the hangover he was still nursing, but he had heard the elation in Cassandra’s tone, had caught the way she and her sister gushed about the boy from Yale and, well, he wouldn’t be Harry Bingham if he didn’t try to be the bane of her existence.

“Really, Cassandra?” He had interjected, feigning surprise as he set his script down and walked over to her. Cassandra’s eyes were already narrowed, waiting for his punch line. “And here I thought you weren’t the type of girl to follow some guy around.”

“I’m not,” she replied, lips pressed into a thin line. She hadn’t thought to bring up his eavesdropping. Maybe she was used to it. “I’m not choosing Yale _because of him._ Why would you even think that?”

“No reason,” Harry shrugged. He forced himself not to stare as she worried at her bottom lip. “So just to be clear, going up there for an early summer term is your idea of _fun_? What, the school library isn’t exciting for you anymore?”

“Maybe, but I don’t see why that should concern you.”

“It doesn’t,” he answered too quickly, his reply coming out defensive much to his chagrin and her amusement.

“ _Riiight_. Oh, Harry,” Cassandra began, voice dripping with sarcasm and eyes gleaming with something Harry was sure he wouldn’t like, “If I didn’t know any better, I would think you’d miss me when I’m gone.”

He blames the way he paused on the pain that was growing at the back of his skull. It was last night’s hangover and her accusation that was just so _absurd_ , so _laughable_ , that caused his mind to blank.

“Bite me, Cassandra,” he had meant to say, but then the director was already calling for another round of rehearsals and the topic was dropped just like that.

That should have been the end of it—just another round lost and tallied in the scoreboard against Cassandra—but now, as he wills himself to sleep, all Harry can see when he closes his eyes is her face, mocking him.

_If I didn’t know any better, I would think you’d miss me when I’m gone._

What bullshit.

In what universe would he miss Cassandra Pressman? Definitely not in this version of it.

As far as he’s concerned, Cassandra going up to Yale would be the best thing to happen to him. There’d be no one to tell him what to do, no one to cut in on his fun, and no one to talk him into doing stupid shit like being the lead in a stage play he couldn’t care less about.

Harry lets out a frustrated sigh, pulling his sheets tighter around him. That’s another thing Cassandra is good at—forcing him into things. Harry wasn’t raised to be a pushover. Sure, he’d agree to do chores for his mom every now and then, but there was always an explicit agreement behind it. _Attend this luncheon with the town committee tomorrow and I’ll let you use your father’s car for the weekend. Give a short speech at this charity event and you can do whatever you want for the summer._ It’s a copacetic exchange, one he is all too willing to participate in.

But what does he get from Cassandra? A pat on the back? A smug smile because she knows she’s somehow managed to trick him into doing her bidding _again_?

Fuck that.

He doesn’t know what’s more humiliating, the fact that she’s turned him into a spineless follower like the rest of the student body, or that he actually _hates_ the thought of Cassandra thinking that’s all he is. Harry doesn’t want to be a follower, much less one of hers. He wants her to see him as her equal.

Because the moment Cassandra decides he isn’t worth her time, he wouldn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to be anything but her enemy; it’s been his role for as long as he can remember.

_Rivals._ That’s all they will ever be. It’s all he’ll ever allow them to be.

Harry forces himself to glance at his phone, groaning when the light hits his eyes. 3:02 AM and he’s still somehow not dead to the world. Running a hand down his face in exasperation, he tries to picture the look Cassandra would give him if he messed up his lines later at practice.

She would be frowning, although not blatantly. The corners of her lips would be turned down just enough to show she isn’t happy with him (when is she ever?) but she’d let him know what she really felt with her eyes. Their usual piercing blue, narrowed at him, would be laced with agitation.

Harry can’t help but smile once that image of her forms in his mind.

It’s not an expression he’s unfamiliar with. Throughout the years he’s spent butting heads with her, Harry’s been on the receiving end of a number of Cassandra’s looks. It’s gotten to the point where he’s made a mental log of what every subtle change in her eyes meant. Like when they turn a shade darker, it means she’s annoyed. Sometimes mad if he’s really pushing it. He likes it, thinks angry is a good look on her pretty face.

Then there’s that glint in her eyes when she knows she’s gotten the last word, which is most of the time. Harry doesn’t hate it as much as he wants to. It’s just, when he sees her eyes practically glow with happiness when she’s talking to someone who isn’t him, he can’t help but wonder how it would feel to be that person, to get something more than the flicker of amusement she only ever gives him.

But then he catches himself and stops that train of thought, pushing it back into the darker recesses of his mind. Wallowing in that would be like opening Pandora’s Box; it’s a thought best left untouched for the sake of his sanity.

What he does hate is when she looks at him with disappointment, because it’s never just the kind of disappointment from failing to do what she wants. She looks at him like she’s saying _you can do better than this,_ you’re _better than this._ _I know you are._ Like she sees through his façade, knows that there’s more to the incorrigible rich boy act he puts on. It’s the unspoken way she lets him know she has expectations he can never meet.

And he hates it—hates _her_ —because no matter how hard he tries to pretend that he doesn’t care about what she thinks, he pathetically does. It’s borderline masochistic how much her opinion matters to him. It’s the kind of fucked up secret he’ll take with him to the grave.

Harry restlessly turns on his side, his eyes falling on the picture on his nightstand. He can barely make out Kelly’s face in the dark, his arm wrapped around her waist with identical smiles on their faces. Becca had taken it after a pep rally, during happier times, back when the uncertainty of their future after high school wasn’t looming over everyone’s heads.

If he were being honest, the thought of missing anyone, even his girlfriend, after graduation never really crossed his mind. Partly because he isn’t the type to think that far ahead into the future, but also because West Ham is the kind of town where you’re surrounded by the same people your entire life. You never really think about what it would feel like to have someone gone until they actually are.

Then again, he figures that West Ham is a _forever_ kind of place. You either leave forever or stay forever.

Harry’s sure Cassandra is the former; she’s the kind that leaves without ever looking back. The only reason for her to stay would be her sister, but he wouldn’t be surprised if she took Allie along with her eventually. Cassandra—smart, responsible, _perfect_ Cassandra—is too big for a small town like this. Always has been. It was only a matter of time before she outgrew this place and left.

“Yale, huh?” He breathes out. Of course she would inevitably go to an Ivy League school. It’s nothing but consistent with her character.

As he buries himself deeper into his bed, the fatigue finally catching up to him, he wonders if she’d stay the same in college—the good Cassandra Pressman whose reputation precedes her. Maybe she’ll crack once she realizes she’s no longer the one in control, no longer _needed_ , and then she would finally lose. But it wouldn’t be Harry’s victory, and somehow that idea puts a bitter taste in his mouth.

He always figured he would be the one to get her to break. In fact, he strives to be the reason for her undoing. He’s been pushing and challenging and provoking Cassandra this whole time with the goal that she goes over the edge, but somewhere along the way something must have changed, because now he isn’t sure if he’s still pushing or if Cassandra’s pulling him in to take the fall with her.

_If I didn’t know any better, I would think you’d miss me when I’m gone._

What’s there to miss about someone that stuck-up, anyway? He’s better off listing the things he won’t.

For one, he won’t miss her stubbornness or her unrelenting goodness; won’t miss how she gets under his skin and _stays_ there, and the way she has him wrapped around her finger without realizing it. He won’t miss the nagging feeling that there’s unfinished business between the two of them; the temptation to get in her personal space just to see how much distance he can cross before something snaps.

And those are only the little things, he thinks to himself. Harry stifles a yawn, his body growing heavier with each second that passes.

There’s also the way she looks at him when he says something he regrets. There’s a fine line between wanting to see her vulnerable and wanting to hurt her; Harry’s made the mistake of crossing it more times than he’s proud of. It’s worse than when she’s disappointed, because there’s no redeeming himself. Once the words leave his lips, he can never take them back. He won’t miss the pained look in her eyes or the way she quickly pretends to brush it off.

Then there are the moments when Cassandra tries to distance herself from him just when he thinks he’s finally getting close to figuring her out. He can’t say he blames her; who would want to show their weakness to their biggest adversary? Still, he doesn’t like it. It’s unnerving; getting close to her feels like a privilege, one even the Bingham name can’t grant him.

As Harry slowly loses himself to sleep, her blonde hair and ocean eyes begin to occupy every remaining thought, just like they always do.

There’s a lot he could feel for Cassandra Pressman, maybe more than he would ever care to admit, but missing her isn’t one of them.

She doesn’t let him get close enough to try.


End file.
